Sceaduwe
by bittergrapes
Summary: SCEADUWE: Old English for 'Shadow'. How do you trick a sociopath? By being one yourself. Warnings for murder, non-con, psychological manipulation. Murky slash. Translock compatible.
1. Caibideil 1

**Sceaduwe – Chapter 1**

"Paper."

With a sigh, John rose from the breakfast table to pace to the landing, grabbing the heavy newspaper that had just landed with a startling thud in front of their door. Sherlock continued staring dreamily into his coffee cup until the requested object landed forcefully in front of him, John grunting as he dropped back into his chair.

The consulting detective snapped open the paper, his eyes quickly scanning the pages until he found something of interest, and a scowl descended on his face. "We need to go to the train station."

"What's that, then?" John asked curiously, shoveling a piece of egg into his mouth.

"Murder in Scotland, Loch Lomond."

"Hmm?"

"They found a liver floating on the surface of the water."

"Human, of course?"

"Obviously. Dive teams found a corpse. Male, approximately 30 years old. Dead for about 12 hours when they found him. Single gunshot wound to the head – no weapon recovered."

"That doesn't sound of interest to you. Could just be any old suicide," his colleague commented absently as he chased a stray bit of toast around his plate with his fork.

Sherlock's eyes gleamed as he leaned in. "With his liver removed? No, no, John. It's the _details_."

"Well?"

"He was wearing a Westwood suit. There was a laser pointer in his front pocket, engraved with the letter 'M'. And this – _this_ is the selling point."

"What?"

"He had a length of horse hair tied around his throat. In a bow."

John merely stared at Sherlock, who was biting his lip in eager anticipation, practically vibrating in his seat.

". . . And?" the doctor prompted.

"_Violin_, John. The _bow_. A bow of a musical instrument is strung of horse hair. Horse hair – in a bow. Westwood suit. Laser pointer. M. Violin – sign that it was for me."

"Moriarty."

"We need to go to the scene and be sure. But that is my tentative hypothesis, yes." Sherlock sprang up, his breakfast forgotten, and dashed to his room. John, finishing his poached eggs on toast, could hear his flatmate talking eagerly to himself as he flung open dresser drawers and ripped clothing off of their hangers in his closet. With a patience borne of his months living with the strange detective, he calmly carried his dishes into the kitchen and headed upstairs to gather his own clothing.

Half an hour later, both men were busily stowing their luggage in the trunk of a hailed cab in the piercing light of an overcast London morning. The foggy cloud cover only served to scatter the bright sunlight of September, causing the whole sky to glow an eerie white, blinding in all directions. Sherlock shielded his eyes with his gloved hand as he looked back up at their flat, still and silent with each door locked, before folding himself into the interior of the cab.

There seemed something familiar about the cabbie, but Sherlock couldn't quite place it. The hair color was similar to someone – something important. A vague sense of unease swelled in his gut, and the detective turned to his colleague, who was deeply engaged in staring out the window.

"John?"

The doctor turned to him, a question poised in his eyes. Sherlock jerked his head toward the cabbie and back at his companion, his jaw set tightly, but John merely tilted his head slightly, evidently confused.

"What is it?"

"_The cabbie_."

John regarded the cabbie for a long moment, then shifted in his chair, shrugging his shoulders and regarding Sherlock curiously. "I think you just might be down on cabbies, because of, well."

"Yes, I know, but no, it's –"

"It's probably nothing, Sherlock. You're just excited about this case, is all. Looking for connections."

"Are you suggesting I'm paranoid?" the detective asked huffily, dismissively tightening the knot on his scarf.

John laughed, reaching over to pat Sherlock's knee. "Perhaps just a little."

Surprised by the uncharacteristic display of physical affection, Holmes flushed deeply, lapsing into an embarrassed silence the rest of the way to the Euston train station.

They were soon settled on the train, Sherlock sitting with his legs up on the seat, John sprawled opposite him, working intently on a crossword as his flatmate muttered to himself, deep in thought. Sherlock's clear, glacial eyes flicked rapidly over the shifting landscape outside, before they alighted suddenly upon the still, bowed figure of his friend.

"But what does it _mean_, John?"

The doctor ran a hand through his hair and set the crossword aside, steepling his fingers to show he was paying attention.

"Which part?"

"The liver." Sherlock pulled out his phone, only to find there was no signal, and cursed, jamming it back into his pocket.

John just sighed, smiling slightly. "Well, it has to be symbolic of something. The liver is such a specific organ to take out. It must have been a sign of something."

"Good, yes, but of what? Loch Lomond. It's a loch, not a sea loch but one of the true lochs. Deep, touristy. Projects an image of timelessness but also of antiquity. The Highlands of Scotland. Not very well known for serial killers, can't think of a single one in the past decade. Known for something else, something . . . else. Clans. All the trifle that comes with the Victorian fetishization of the traditional Scottish way of life, yes."

"Superstitions?" John offered.

"YES, John!" The detective's eyes glowed fiercely. "Very good! Yes. Superstition. It all makes sense. Water spirits, Scotland's known for those. Kelpie, selkie, mermaid, others, others. Cause of death was the gunshot wound rather than drowning, points off for there, spirits don't use guns – oh. It wasn't meant to confuse us into thinking this was anything but a murder, no, it was to _suggest_ a specific fairy tale. The liver, then. The liver, the liver – John, do you know much of Scottish water spirits? It's never come of use to me before."

"Not much more than the layperson."

"Right. Location specific, generally. So a loch – not a river or a stream, but a loch – in the Highlands of Scotland, liver removed. Do I have signal yet?"

"Try mine?" John offered, tossing his phone to his flatmate, who caught it smoothly, giving a happy yelp when he saw that it still had bars. It took him less than a minute to find the proper Wikipedia page and hand the back to its owner, a triumphant smirk hanging easily on his lips.

"That's our story – the Each Uisge. The most dangerous water spirit in Britain. Very good choice, reminding us who we're dealing with."

"Right, good. But why do we have to go to Scotland if you could have just figured that out on the phone?"

Sherlock looked miffed, his lip curling derisively as he jammed his hands into his pockets. "Obviously I would like to examine the bodies for any details that the inquiry would have missed. You will be useful for that as well. It always helps to have a fresh set of eyes."

"Right."

"And it helps to get away from Baker Street for a while," Holmes offered, a genuine smile throwing his face into light. "One of those working vacations."

John returned his smile, picking up his crossword again. The two sat in companionable silence until disembarking at Glasgow Central to pick up a train to Hyndland. England far behind them, the fresh, bracing air of Scotland was a welcome change, filling their lungs with cold, damp air while they lunched at a café.

Something about the Scottish light warped John's features, Sherlock decided, a subtle change from warm and companionable to bristling and distant. He scowled, analyzing his friend's face as the doctor sliced at his steak with neat, surgical swipes until John looked up, shooting him a questioning glance. He shook his head, brushing his index fingers against his lips as he observed the man returning to his meal.

Something was _off_. He couldn't quite decide what, but the sickly feeling in his stomach rose once again and he couldn't bring himself to ignore it.

Their train to the heart of the Highlands departed again shortly, throwing them once again into the chilly quiet that had begun to descend around them. Sherlock gazed out the window, his brain calculating and recalculating, analyzing any possible clue: both for the murder scene awaiting them at Loch Lomond, and for the sudden shift in his attitude toward John.

"Have you done anything to irritate me lately?" He asked suddenly, turning back to the unassuming man still penning words into the boxes of his puzzle.

"Sorry?"

"Irritating me. Have you done it recently?"

"Uh . . . not that I'm aware. Why? What's this about?" A microexpression crossed John's face almost too fast for Sherlock to catch it – was that _pride_? – before it settled on concern.

"Nothing. Just – curious."

"I thought you would know better than me if I've annoyed you."

"Brain. Deletes things it doesn't deem important, sometimes misses a few particles. Stray emotions and things like that."

John chuckled – it seemed more a short bark than a true laugh – and grimace slightly. "Thought you didn't bother with emotions."

"Sometimes they bother with me."

The long-suffering doctor simply sighed. "Right. Well, I'm going to take a nap, if it's alright with you? Wake me up when we get to Hyndland."

"Of course. Then one more train to Balloch."

"Very good."

In the lull of the car, the companionable snores of his flatmate and the soothing rattle of the train's windows, Sherlock pulled out his phone, typing in a quick Google search.

_How to know if you're angry with your flatmate_

When the search pulled up nothing of interest, he tried something else.

_How to remember if someone has annoyed you_

Nothing conclusive appeared, and he tried again.

_How to know if you're angry or infatuated_

A stream of interesting articles appeared; Sherlock rolled his eyes, suppressing a groan for the sake of the sleeping doctor, and settled down to read.

An hour later, the train shuddered to a stop at the station, John jerking awake at the touch of Sherlock's pale, cold hand on his shoulder. "Already here? Felt like ten minutes."

"Sleep distorts your awareness of time."

"Yes, thank you," John muttered crabbily, pulling on his coat. "Find anything interesting on your phone about the murder?"

"Yes – no. Not about the murder." Sherlock drew himself up to his full height, descending to the platform, his nose twitching.

"About what, then?"

"About _you_."

"What?" Watson's expression deepened into confusion. "Why were you looking up me?"

"Not you specifically, about you."

"Okay . . . what then?" John asked, hurrying to keep up with Sherlock's long strides as they made their way to the next train.

"Google seems to think I'm in love with you."

The doctor burst out in laughter, stopping suddenly to double over with the strength of his mirth. "You – in love – with – oh god Sherlock! That's – oh god – no, that's ridiculous."

Sherlock caught his hurt look before it could spread over his face, settling on biting his lip savagely. "Right. Very amusing. We have a train to catch, come along."

"Sorry, it's just – that would never happen."

"As you say, John. Come _on_," he growled, tugging on the bent-over man's hand with a furious burst of energy. Straightening, John followed obediently, still chuckling.

"Let's try to focus on the dead man, alright, Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"This isn't a, a . . . honeymoon, or what have you."

"I'm perfectly aware." Even Sherlock could sense the awkwardness roiling between them as the two settled themselves and their belongings onto the train.

"Just so we're clear. That's all."

"I know – it's fine."

Another stretch of silence appeared between them; Sherlock idly wondered if there ever _had _been a time where they had felt truly comfortable with each other, or if his mind had merely glossed over any unpleasantness that had existed in the past. The man tucked in the ratty chair opposite him, reading a paper he'd snatched up in the station, surely didn't seem threatening; yet Sherlock felt a growing restlessness, a discomfort.

Surely it had to be some sort of attraction? No other option made sense. They had no secrets from each other, no part of their lives kept separate or contained: to suddenly feel such a sense of unease must suggest that Sherlock's own feelings had somehow shifted, bringing them in an uncomfortable new alignment to which his mind must adjust. It was the most probably conclusion of the data – he would make that his working hypothesis. Certainly, it was a puzzle to play with while they pondered the case, like a background program kept running while he handled more pressing things.

As for the true matter at hand? Sherlock settled down, running a hand through his thick nest of curls and closing his eyes as a vast network of speculation and calculation spread throughout his mind. In this situation, only the body could tell.


	2. Caibideil 2

**Sceaduwe – Chapter 2**

The ride from Balloch to Ardlui, the town closest to the crime scene, was uncomfortably pensive, the two men in the back seat both studiously avoiding the gaze of the other. John gazed out the window at the soggy landscape as a light sheath of rain draped the verdant green hills in a dusting of mist. Sherlock clicked away on his Blackberry, searching for more information about the Each Uisge as well as any possible leads on the body, but he knew it was pointless. In fact, he was beginning to suspect that coming to Scotland was pointless as well; it was likely just a ploy to lure him away from London, and he'd fallen for it easily. Of course there would be nothing to tell from the body. Moriarty wasn't that ignorant: he knew how to plan a murder, execute it so only the facts he wanted to show were available. The identity of the man likely didn't matter either – for all they knew, he could have just been a man off the street.

They arrived at the scene at about 4pm, ducking past the police tape. Sherlock flashed DI Lestrade's badge, surprised when no one thought to question him, and he motioned John to kneel beside the body with him.

"Well, the cause of death is obvious," John began, bending over to check the state of the corpse's hand, smelling the mouth for any sign of poison. He worked quickly and efficiently under Sherlock's approving eye, finally standing up and whipping his gloves off with an efficient snap. "There's really nothing to tell, nothing that we didn't hear before. Died of a gunshot wound, submerged shortly after with all the little artifacts in place."

A policeman with a thick Scottish brogue appeared, handing Sherlock a sheaf of papers. "Found your man. Thomas Edgington, 30 years old. In and out of the prison system for the past 15 years, including several charges for conspiracy of murder. Trained sniper."

A bright look came over Sherlock as a piece clicked into place. He grasped John by the forearms excitedly as his companion instinctively stiffened. "John! This is not a random victim to send us a message – it serves a dual purpose!"

"How's that?"

"Moriarty is murdering his own henchmen to leave me a warning to back off. This man must have been one of the snipers at the Pool; it _fits, _John. It serves the purpose of diminishing the amount of people who know about the inner workings of his organization, _and_ to attempt to intimidate me. It's brilliant, just brilliant." Sherlock released the doctor, stepping aside and wringing his hands with pleasure.

"So. . . what are we supposed to do?"

"Not sure yet. Haven't gotten there yet," the detective murmured, pacing back and forth before the body. "I doubt anything I could do would stop these people from being murdered; no, he's too efficient for that. And this isn't a puzzle for me to figure out, unfortunately. It's a waiting game." He scowled, gnashing his teeth slightly. "Oh, I _hate_ those."

John turned around, looking at the police officers and forensics professionals who were staring at them. "Are we done here, then? Because I feel we've about overstayed our welcome."

"Yes, yes, quite done," Sherlock spat, shooting the corpse one last hateful gaze before ducking back under the police line and holding it up for John. "Complete waste of time, very disappointing. I could have figured out all of this from my armchair at home."

His companion bit his lip to keep from offering a sharp retort, merely jogging to catch up with the taller man's long-legged strides. "What now, Sherlock?"

"Well, checking into our hotel for the night, I presume. We'll leave for London again in the morning. And I imagine we could both do to unwind: fancy a walk about the loch?" After the uncomfortable conversation of the morning, Sherlock stuttered slightly, and John shot him a sidelong glance.

"Actually, if you don't mind, I'm quite knackered – perhaps we could turn in early? I'd appreciate it."

"Yes, yes, of course," the detective hastened to agree, and they lapsed back into quiet on their way to the Ardlui Hotel, Sherlock wringing his hands distractedly and John looking straight ahead with his mouth set in a thin pink line.

Due to a mix-up of the hotel's registers, they had received a room with only one twin bed instead of the two they had requested; John, who had booked the hotel, argued hotly with the receptionist before giving up and storming toward their suite, Sherlock following silently. They arranged their things on either side of the bed, steadfastly refusing to look at each other. Sherlock wondered once more whether things had always had such a strained quality, or if this had been a recent development he had simply ignored. In either case, the leaden ball of nerves twitched uncomfortably in his gut, so palpably he almost winced. The sinister sensation developing between them was distracting him from his work, and he decided it was best to address it.

"John-"

At that moment, the doctor flicked on the TV, reclining against his share of the pillows and absentmindedly rubbing his damaged shoulder. His eyes were ringed by heavy bags, and they nearly drifted shut every so often, as if he were fighting not to succumb to sleep. His left hand was also trembling softly: a sure sign not to bother him. Sherlock, noting these clues, shut his mouth and turned to watch the documentary on bears that had captured John's half-awake attention.

By unspoken agreement, John flicked off the TV at the conclusion of the nature programme, and Sherlock stood up to pull the blackout curtains shut. Both men shifted and twisted, trying to lie down with the least amount of skin touching; John jolted as if shocked when Sherlock wrapped an arm around him right before he nearly toppled off the side of the bed. When the detective didn't move the offending arm, his bedmate stopped moving, shifting into the embrace with a huff. Sherlock held his breath and almost dared to pull him closer when John sat up, staring down at Sherlock with the little light creeping around the edge of the curtains.

"This isn't going to work," he said firmly.

Sherlock froze, looking up at his companion with a mixture of fear and rejection glistening in his eyes. "You could sleep in the bathroom, I guess?"

"No, Sherlock. That's not what I meant."

"What did you mean, then?"

"We need to spoon, or neither of us will get any sleep."

"Spoon. . . ." Sherlock narrowed his eyes, the term clearly lost on him.

John sighed a little in exasperation, taking his flatmate by the shoulders and forcibly turning him into his side, then leaned over to push Sherlock's knees into the proper position. The alignment set, he lied down in the curvature thus created, reaching over to wrap Sherlock's arm around him.

Unused to such closeness with another human, Sherlock calmed himself by watching John's chest move slowly with the force of his breaths. He could smell John's aftershave – a spicy, woodsy cologne given to him by his sister – and felt his rough skin, a testament to their adrenaline-drenched lifestyle and general disdain for the luxury of moisturizers. If John could sense Sherlock's nervousness, he said nothing, merely sighed a little and shifted himself into a more comfortable position against his flatmate.

"Is this awkward? Is this supposed to be awkward?"

"No, Sherlock," John replied sleepily. "This is what people do when they have to share a tiny bed. My shoulder can't take a night on the floor, and god knows you need a good night's sleep."

"Oh. Well."

"What's awkward is your erection jabbing me in the thigh."

"_Oh_."

The doctor gave a drowsy sigh. "Just try to get some sleep."

"Yes. Well. I. . . goodnight, John."

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

Sherlock floated back into consciousness some hours later, finding John's side of the bed empty and the covers flung back. As his body shook off sleep paralysis, he heard the faint lull of John's voice, talking quietly.

The fact that no other voice was present told him immediately that John was on the phone – but to who? The cadence of his voice suggested professionalism: his words were measured and even instead of his typical stop-start flow of words when talking to a friend. But who would he be talking to so late at night? He strained to hear distinct words, but none came to him: clearly John did not want to be overheard.

Figuring his flatmate was allowed a modicum of privacy, Sherlock willfully ignored his desire to get up and investigate the conversation. Perhaps it was about his sister, or one of his acquaintances in one of the larger hospitals wanted his input on a particularly difficult case. Shifting to wrap the blankets further about him, Sherlock forced his mind to block out the melodic flow of John's voice and return to sleep.

When the morning broke cool but bright by the shores of Loch Lomond, John was once against nestled in Sherlock's long arms, tight under the covers. Sherlock awoke to his flatmate's soft snores, the weight of John's body a pleasant sensation against his own chest. Unfamiliar flutters arose in the detective's stomach, but he dismissed them as unimportant and sat up, stretching and shaking John's shoulder at the same time. The doctor grumpily curled closer to himself, mumbling incoherently.

"Come on, John! Big day ahead. I need you to go down and hire a taxi for us."

"Dun wanna," he mumbled.

"Don't care. Come along. Up." Sherlock himself rose, reaching for his suitcase to pull out a pair of trousers and a red button-down. He turned away from the bed, listening keenly as John rolled blearily out of bed and trundled toward the bathroom. Smirking to himself, he pulled out his cell phone to check for messages as John attended to his morning needs.

An half-hour later found both men outside the hotel, waiting for their taxi. Sherlock scrolled through the top news stories on his phone while John surveyed the landscape, until the shorter man broke the silence by laughing.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked sharply.

"Do you realize that we must have the most expensive taxi budget of anyone we know?"

"Why?"

"Sherlock. A round-way trip from Ardlui to Balloch, an hour and a half away? Do you realize how much that costs?"

"Yes, well. . ."

"We could rent a car sometime, you know."

"Driving. Boring."

"Do you even have a license?"

Sherlock assumed a haughty expression. "Yes, of course."

". . . Do you ever use it?"

"Like I said. Driving. Boring."

"Well. It might cut down on costs if we're going to be driving all around God's green earth for this case."

Right then, their cab arrived, and they spent much of the drive back to Balloch in silence once more. Sherlock, consumed with thoughts of the case, barely noticed when they arrived at their destination.

As they boarded the train back to Glasgow, an incoming text made an urgent buzz in Sherlock's pocket. He whipped it out, and, seeing it was from Lestrade, smiled.

"Lestrade just got word of another body. Dane Hills, Leicester. He'll meet us there."

"Oh – connected to this one, I presume?"

"Obviously."

John eyes gained a hard, cold glint for a split second, before melting to their customary warmth. "At least you're not bored, right?"

Sensing the subtle change, Sherlock regarded him warily for a long moment, shaking his head as if to ward off a bad thought. "Yes. Boredom – greatest enemy of a great mind."

"So I've learned from the holes in our sitting room wall."

"I'm renting a car. We'll drive there from Birmingham."

"Should I get my affairs in order, then?"

Sherlock grinned broadly. "You can type them up on the train."


	3. Capitul 3

**Sceaduwe – Chapter 3**

"HOLY MOTHER OF GOD – PLEASE SLOW THE BLOODY FUCK DOWN!" John screamed through gritted teeth, clinging to the roll bar as their rented car took a curve too fast and bounced merrily against the rumble strip. Sherlock, both hands pressed firmly to the wheel, deftly counter-steered, bringing the Citroën C3 out of the beginning of a skid, before pressing his foot down again and revving the tiny engine to an even greater speed.

"You seem frightened," Sherlock replied casually, sparing a glance at his passenger, who was shaking against his headrest, gulping deep breaths of air.

"I'd rather not get turned into jam on the side of the road!"

"Who were you talking to last night?" the driver asked, hoping that the extra adrenalin and cortisol in John's system would force him to answer truthfully.

"It won't matter much after we _die_ because you're a bloody terrible driver, will it?" The doctor screeched.

"We're not going to die, John," Sherlock countered. "I am a perfectly adept – hold on." He paused to swerve sharply to the left, as he'd drifted into the opposite lane of traffic and in front of a speeding truck. John closed his eyes and covered his face with his hand, letting out a hysterical whimper.

"SAYS THE MAN WHO JUST SWERVED INTO ONCOMING TRAFFIC."

"And then swerved out of it. I don't see what the problem is."

"The _problem_ is that – never mind. Just wake me if I happen to survive the inevitable collision with either a median or a _fucking truck_."

"Of course, John," Sherlock agreed pleasantly.

They arrived in Leicester in one piece, much to John's amazement. Skidding to a stop in a grassy knoll near the crime scene, the tires smoking and the transmission whining ominously, Sherlock jerked the car into 'PARK' and got out, tossing the keys to John for safekeeping as he whirled off toward the cave. John, his hands on his knees, leaned down for a brief moment to pant with relief before heading after his colleague.

"The legend is Black Annis this time," said Sherlock over his shoulder to his assistant. "Only possible one. Dane Hills – location specific. Well-known legend in this area. Victim is a woman – wouldn't work if it were a man. I imagine we'll find very specific mutilations to the body that align well with the ghoul's physical description."

"Fantastic work, Sherlock," John replied.

Sherlock turned on his heel, regarding John with a cold glint in his eyes. "Is there anything you mean to tell me, John? Anything untoward happening that I might like to know about?"

The doctor assumed a blank expression. "You mean, between us?"

"No. I mean in regards to this case."

"Sherlock, I don't know anything more about this than you do – why would I hide anything from you?"

"Who were you talking to last night, then?" Sherlock's eyes were blazing now, a passion that rarely boded well for those who viewed it.

John straightened, aligning himself as if offended. "I was talking to one of the doctors who works at St. Barts. They had a shipment of cadaver heads and wanted to know if you'd like one. I asked for two for you. Paid it out of my own pocket, had them put in the freezer for you. I thought it would be a nice surprise for when this case is over."

Sherlock, taken aback, paused in the middle of pulling off his gloves. "Oh. Um. That was very, very nice of you, John."

"And you assume I'm sneaking around behind your back?" John asked, his face coloring with agitation.

"Late-night phone calls are generally indicative of secret business."

"It wasn't that late, Sherlock. We turned in very early – around 6pm. I got the call around 8pm."

Something niggled at the back of the detective's mind: surely his internal clock wasn't _that_ off? But perhaps he was imagining it. Stress tended to force him to forget trivial information that did not pertain directly to a case. Maybe it had only felt much later in the night. Cursing himself for not bothering to check the time before drifting back to sleep, Sherlock sent off a quick text to Molly before pushing the matter out of his mind. A wave of case-related details surged back to the forefront, and he bathed in the speculation, the data and theories, as he marched toward Black Annis' Bower.

Lestrade was already there, conversing with a police officer, but he broke off the conversation at the first glimpse of the familiar sweeping coat of the detective. "Sherlock, good of you to make it."

"What are we looking at, Detective Inspector."

The silver-haired DI swept his hand toward the cave, cordoned off with police tape and lit with halogen bulbs. "See for yourself." He nodded to John, who had just arrived, and the doctor nodded back cordially.

Sherlock ignored their pleasantries as he pulled on a pair of Latex gloves, moving toward the back of the cave, where a small figure laid prone on the ground. A thick rope had been placed around the corpse's neck before death, cutting off air supply and giving her face a sickly blueberry tint. Her mouth, agape and smeared with blood, revealed that her teeth had been pulled out with pliers and replaced with nails, the type one could find at a hardware store for a penny a head.

Sherlock snorted, frustrated. The quantity needed for the effect wasn't enough that any hardware clerk would find it out of the ordinary, and the brand (which he could tell from the pattern on the head of the nail) was common enough that any hardware store worth its rent would sell them. Even asking around at nearby shops would be useless: Moriarty's killers were smart enough not to buy the murder implements nearby. No, the nails would have come from a big-box hardware store in a large city, avoiding suspicion altogether. The nails told him nothing.

Neither did the floorboard nails that had been inserted under the victim's cuticles. Except, perhaps . . .

Sherlock pulled out his Blackberry, clicking into the shopping section. Oh, no, but the floorboard nails indeed told him.

"Priors Reclamation! Very clever, the lengths they went to."

"Sorry, what?" John asked.

The detective smiled, holding out his phone for his flatmate to examine. "These nails are floorboard nails. Traditional floorboard nails, only a few companies still manufacture them. There are two in the UK as far as I can tell. One is in Glasgow, one is in Shropshire. They bought the nails from Priors Reclamation: handy little place, apparently they sell things for people restoring old houses with traditional hardware. We can trace the organization from that. Specialty boutique like that, they'll keep records. Repeat visitors. This is the mistake that will unravel them." Sherlock was brimming with glee, Lestrade and John merely regarding him as if he were slightly demented.

"But, wait . . . you said there was one in Glasgow, as well? If the murders are connected, wouldn't it have made sense for the killers to go to Ardlui, kill the first victim, pick up the materials at Glasgow and _then_ come here? Shropshire isn't as convenient as Glasgow for this one if they're coming from Scotland."

Sherlock grinned. "Ah, but that's the best part."

"What's that?" Lestrade asked, genuinely curious.

The detective bent over, picking up a small fibre between his slim fingers. "This is a horse hair."

John's eyes widened. Seeing his expression, Sherlock nodded, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he barked forth his ominous laugh. "It's brilliant, _so_ brilliant. There is a string of murders about to occur, all of them within Moriarty's organization. When you ID this woman, you'll find her history much like that of the first: a career criminal, most likely trained in sniping. It is a lineage of victims, you see: this woman is the murderer for our friendly sniper currently in Ardlui's mortuary. Since Moriarty is most likely still based in London, _her_ killer would be near there as well; at least, nearer there than Scotland, which is why we found her here. She was ambushed on her way back from completing her task."

"Ambushed?" Lestrade interjected.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "She didn't know she was going to get killed. Even a hardened criminal has a survival instinct and would do their best to vanish if they thought they were in danger. She thought she had completed her task on another operative, and was returning to base. She'd taken the train from Glasgow and was planning to continue on to London when someone either lured her off the train, or kidnapped her while she was waiting for the connection." Sherlock bent down, rooting through the pockets, but came up with nothing.

"Well, I'll give them that: they're thorough. No train ticket, cleaned off the body. Except for this," he smiled, dropping the horse hair into an evidence bag and handing it to Lestrade. "Anyway. The reason the nails must have come from Prior Reclamation is because it, of the two stores that sell these specific floorboard nails, is the one closer to London. Her killer was driving from London to Leicester, not from Glasgow to Leicester, so it makes more sense to go to Shropshire to get the materials than to take the train all the way up to Scotland."

Both men were staring at Sherlock with mixed expression of awe and confusion. He looked back at them, a half-chuckle hung on his lips.

"So _dull_, both of you."

"Well, thanks," Lestrade grumbled.

"Our murderer – and future victim – is likely back on their way to London as we speak. We know they must work for Moriarty. Oh! STRANGLING!"

An expression of understanding dawned on John's face. "Soo Lin Yao's brother got away."

"Exactly," Sherlock yipped, grabbing John's arm. "I think we've extrapolated plenty enough from this one. Her murder myth was Black Annis – blue skin, iron claws. Iron teeth a bit fanciful but a good touch. She was most likely one of the snipers from the Pool. Murderer of the fine Thomas Edgington, also a sniper from the Pool. And almost certainly murdered by Soo Lin Yao's brother – The Spider – who we now must apprehend and rescue at the same time." Sherlock rubbed his hands together excitedly. "This is a _fun_ one."

"Glad to see you're enjoying yourself while people are dropping like flies," John commented wearily, rubbing a hand over his face.

Sherlock's phone buzzed then, and he glanced down.

_Yes, we did receive cadaver heads – John asked for two for you. –Molly Hooper_

"Hmm," he grunted as he folded himself back into the driver's seat.

"What's that?"

"Thank you for the cadaver heads."

"Don't mention it. Where are we off to now?"

"London! See if we can catch the murderer before they murder the murderer. I always enjoy some moral ambiguity," he drawled, reversing sharply out of the dirt rut and spinning the car rapidly back onto the road. John groaned weakly and clutched at the seat.

"You didn't get used to jalopies in the war? Half-flat wheels and broken suspension? This should be like a Ferrari to you after that."

"It's one of those things you don't want to get used to, so you don't."

"Good! Keeps things fresh," Sherlock replied devilishly.

"What did I get myself into, rooming with you?" John moaned.

Sherlock braked suddenly and wheeled the car over to the side of the road, regarding his passenger with a deadly serious expression, before leaning over to kiss him passionately.

The kiss lasted less than five seconds before John roughly shoved his flatmate away. "_What in God's fucking name are you doing_?"

"I. . . I . . . I thought this was one of those moments where you broke the tension by kissing the other conversant."

"Clearly you thought wrong," John growled, before an odd gleam entered his eyes, and he looked at the detective as if examining him – analyzing him. "Or maybe I did." Grabbing Sherlock's face and smashing it to his so hard that both men felt a _pop _of Sherlock's jaw.

The kiss was brutal and short-lived, Sherlock pulling away gasping and touching his lip, a smear of blood gracing his finger. John merely watched him, a complacent smile on his lips and innocence renewed in his eyes.

"Right. London, you said?"


	4. Capitul 4

**Author's Notes**: Sorry if Sherlock seems out-of-character during the non-con scene and afterward: obviously it's a little hard writing someone who's never been raped as being raped. And it's just a hard thing to write in the first place. I drew on my personal experiences as a survivor of sexual assault, so I don't know if his detachment seemed accurate or appropriate. I apologize to anyone who might be offended by this chapter or by its characterization.

Also, the reason I wanted the assault scene to come out of nowhere is because remember - John is a sociopath in this 'verse. Part of sociopathy is impulsiveness and a complete disregard for social mores or rules. Part of the reason that sociopaths get 'outed' is because of this impulsiveness and need to gratify themselves at inappropriate times.

And I have the feeling that Sherlock wouldn't want to tell anyone about it or would try to justify it in his mind, both to keep himself from having to feel the full effects of being traumatized, and so that he could focus his attention on other things - namely the murder investigation. That's why you see him focusing on trying to make it make sense in his head.

**Sceaduwe – Chapter 4**

Baker Street remained as silent and pensive as when they had left, the eaves of the shops shuttered against the late hour. John, roused from a doze in the back of the cab, blearily fumbled his way to the door of their flat, dragging his bag along behind him as Sherlock followed close behind.

"I can't believe you didn't get damage charges on the rental," John yawned, clomping up the stairs.

"Home again, boys? Have a nice vacation?" Mrs. Hudson sprang out from behind the door of 221A, her heels clucking against the carpet. Sherlock embraced her as John simply nodded in recognition.

"Very much so – picked up a fantastic case. We'll be out again in a minute, just dropping off our bags."

"I'll leave you lovebirds to it," she replied affectionately, patting Sherlock's arm.

"We're not!" John called after the landlady, sighing in frustration.

"Mm," the detective mumbled as he pushed past his flatmate to drop his bags in the living room.

"We aren't."

"The sniper's killer. Soo Lin Yao's brother, probably, obviously."

"We're not together."

"Death by strangling, all of them have had a connection to the past cases that we've solved regarding Moriarty's organization, hence it is most likely Soo Lin Yao's brother, The Spider."

"Sherlock, I mean it, we're not like-"

"Location specific, but we don't know what the myth is. But we do know-"

"You're not listening to me!"

"I've heard you perfectly clear, John. I choose to ignore you because what you're talking about has no bearing on the current situation and hence is decidedly unhelpful in figuring out where our victim is going to be. If you could kindly stop insisting that you're perfectly heterosexual and perhaps offer some useful input as to the solving of this case, I'd greatly appreciate it." Sherlock shot John a particularly acerbic look before smiling distractedly, diving back into his headspace to further parse out the crime.

"The Black Tramway maybe?"

"Also, the fact that you moved in to kiss me after the disruption of the first kiss suggests that on some level, subconscious or not, you recognize that you are bisexual."

"I thought you said that has no bearing on this case."

"It doesn't. But it needed to be said." The detective sprang up, clapping his hands. "So. Black Tramway. Most likely location of our murderer-cum-victim. Let's go have a look."

The ride to the tramway was filled with silence, Sherlock swimming deeply in his own deductions while John merely stared out the window. The detective, surfacing suddenly to note the frosty tension between them, regarded his flatmate curiously.

"Have we always been this cold toward each other?"

"Hmm? What do you mean?"

"The not talking. Has it always been like this, have I just deleted all of the interactions that demonstrate this uncomfortable air?"

"I. . . didn't realize it was uncomfortable. I thought you were just busy thinking."

"I was. But then I stopped thinking and noticed this."

Well, if it consoles you any, Sherlock, I don't think it's always been this quiet, but I also don't think the quiet is necessarily a bad thing. We just don't have much to say to each other. It happens when you spend a lot of time with someone."

"Does it? I've never spent enough time with anyone to find out."

"This is relatively natural."

"Yes. . . but yet, no. No, there's something off." Sherlock turned to face his colleague with a speculative gaze. "The cadaver heads."

John huffed. "These again? How does this have _anything_ to do with the case?"

"You said you called and reserved them for me. Fresh shipment, perfectly good heads – why would Molly call you instead of me?"

"She didn't. I called her. Knew they were expecting them in because I'd talked to her about some specimens for you before we left. She still can't remember my name, you know."

"Yes, but then why didn't she mention them to me? Why were you talking to her about them instead of asking me if I'd want any?"

"You had a list of requested body parts on the fridge at the flat."

"_But why didn't she mention them to me_?" Sherlock hissed, growing agitated.

"Why is this even important right now?"

"Because it's off. That's why it's important, because it doesn't make sense and hence I want to fix it before it takes up any more space in my head!"

"Sherlock. She mentioned them to me two days ago, the last time I went to Barts with you, while you were out of the room. I said I would call her to tell her what to do with them when they got them in, and she gave me the expected time of arrival. When you came back in you were agitated and ready to leave because your experiment wasn't going how you expected; hence why neither of us mentioned it to you. By the time the shipment came in, you were asleep, so I just called and told them to put them in the freezer and expect to hold them for a while. End of story, mystery solved."

"Your left eyelid is twitching."

"Eyes do that sometimes."

"Typical signal of a liar."

"Why the _hell_ would I have any reason to lie to you about something so stupid? You're being paranoid, Sherlock. No wonder we haven't gotten far on this case, because you're spending half your time trying to figure out whether I'm deceiving you!"

The car jolted to a stop and Sherlock stormed out, spinning on his heel to stare down his colleague. "Then so be it. Then you are part of the puzzle as well."

John's eyes flashed and his jaw tightened. "Fine."

Their footsteps echoed eerily in the dark tunnel, lit only by a low fire near the back. Both pulled out their weapons, turned to look at each other, and with a nod, remembering their last experience in the tunnel, pocketed their guns again.

"Our killer has already been here – that means we're too late to save Yao."

"Pity," John replied sarcastically.

Sherlock's eyebrow twitched in silent alarm at the doctor's tone, but the man said nothing, merely trudged further into the tunnel before stepping back suddenly.

"Oh. _Much_ too late to save Yao."

At their feet laid a thawing, headless corpse, smelling strongly of formaldehyde. A gouge in the chest showed the ribs had been pulled back to remove the heart. Sherlock, kneeling beside the body, took in all the details quickly before inviting John to do the same.

"Well, the blood has been removed and it was preserved quickly after death. Time of death isn't obvious because it's been preserved, but if I had to say, judging by the slight signs of decay, it's been about six months since this person died."

"Do we know it's The Spider?"

John looked up, shaking his head. "Headless corpse – we'd need fingerprints, and they might not even have his on file because he's not a British citizen."

"This is a break in the pattern."

"What's that?"

"This man here could not have killed our Black Annis. So someone else killed her, and then brought out the body here. Or several people. The preservation of the body destroyed any meaningful data as well, so we have nothing else to go on other than the mutilations to the body, which – here's my phone – start looking for anything you can find British-specific about headless corpses with the hearts taken out."

"I'll burn the heart out of you."

Alarmed, Sherlock stared at John.

"That's what Moriarty said, wasn't it? He'd burn the heart out of you," John continued, typing slowly on Sherlock's phone.

"Yes . . . _yes_, that's it! That's the break in the pattern. Because now they're getting personal. We go from two victims I've never seen before, have no connection to, to one I know slightly because I was there the night he killed his sister. I can only presume the next ones will be people I know personally. And that's why he broke the pattern – to underscore that shift. Very, very clever. I love a clever enemy."

"Found your murder myth," John replied, tossing the phone back to Sherlock. "The Revenant. The British version of zombies, I'm gathering: people who started to walk about after death, they cut the heads off and took the hearts out to stop them from hurting people."

"Just like this man has come back from the dead to serve as a warning. Oh, this one's _good_."

"Any leads from this, then?" John asked, gesturing to the corpse.

"No, of course not. We're not dealing with a typical murderer here, John, but a group, training in killing people and showing the least amount of evidence possible. Anything we weren't supposed to see has been conveniently removed to keep us from finding anything of value. Even the nails weren't a mistake of course, because the body could have been posed whenever – there was no need to worry about us finding it because they'd know when we were on our way back to London. Shropshire wasn't a clue after all; in fact, we were supposed to figure out it wasn't from Glasgow so we would return at once to London and figure out the next puzzle before anyone else chanced upon it. It wasn't a mistake. It was guidance. Of _course_."

"Okay, good?"

"So our next victim is the murderer of the sniper, and most likely also the poser of this body as well. But . . ."

"But what?"

"The last victim. Her teeth. Where were her teeth? Obviously the murderer took them, but where? Wherever we find the teeth will tell us if I was right."

"I'm not following."

"We know the victims don't know they're going to be killed – well, except for this poor sod – so whoever it is will likely not get rid of the teeth. They have no need to, and disposing of evidence like that – something as specific as teeth – will surely lead someone straight to them. Too risky. That means that the teeth will likely still be with them when they're killed, and what would their murderer need with them? That would just lead to suspicion on _them_ for carrying around a bag of teeth."

"How do you know it's a bag?"

"Assumption. Regardless. I doubt that any of the operatives know about the chain of murders: they're just following the orders given to them, and why would they bother to ask questions about what they're told to do? If they knew that others had been killed before them, they would quickly realize they were next – survival instinct that I was talking about, they'd find a way to disappear. No, that tells me that they don't know."

"But wouldn't they notice that operatives are suddenly disappearing?"

Perhaps . . . _ah._ They don't know about each other. That's how Moriarty maintains such strong control over them. It's the way to run any organization based on fear; don't tell everyone everything, only tell them what they need to know. Operatives are given assignments, they perform them, then are disposed of as soon as it's convenient."

"Makes good sense."

"Right. I think we're done here so far, nothing of importance has been left on the body as far as I can tell – did you see anything?"

"No, not that I can tell."

"Very good, John. I'll text Lestrade and tell him to come pick up and ID the body." The detective whipped out his phone, beginning a text. "Also, John?"

"Yes."

"You're bisexual," he remarked offhandedly, his eyes still glued to his phone.

Sherlock had barely taken another step before he found himself pinned against the wall, his hands pinioned by John's. The shorter man was staring fiercely into his eyes, the blue orbs burning with such intensity that it nearly physically hurt.

"If I fucked you right now to prove I was bisexual, would you say no?"

"John," he growled warningly.

"Answer the question."

"I'm not interested in that," Sherlock replied coolly. "And your bisexuality does not need proving. I knew it the moment I met you. It was obvious to anyone with eyes."

"You didn't answer my question."

"I very nearly did."

"You _wouldn't_ say no, would you," John growled, pulling Sherlock against him.

"I didn't say that."

"But I can tell that it's true. You're in love with me; you said so yourself. So why would you say no?"

Sherlock felt the older man's tumescence pressing into his thigh, and a sharp wave of dizziness overcame him. His knees buckled, but instead of falling to the ground, John lifted him up to turn him around; the detective automatically braced himself against the wall as his trousers were unbuckled and sent zipping toward the filthy floor.

Surely this couldn't be happening? A poor diet, lack of sleep – this could explain this exceptionally convincing hallucination, of course? Sherlock closed his eyes and recounted every study he could remember regarding stress-related psychosis and its various manifestations. Pages upon pages of PDFs flew past his shuttered eyelids, interrupted occasionally by the sudden need to yelp in pain as John pressed inside him and then, later, shifted about, thrusting viciously.

Somewhere in his brain he remembered that he could shout for help, or even better, fight John off. But isn't this what he wanted? He'd said he wanted John; Google told him he was in love with the man. Then wasn't he supposed to enjoy this, this physical activity most commonly associated with dating, romance, seduction, love? Just because he'd never been interested in it before, never felt the appeal – _still_ didn't feel the appeal, even as it was being done upon him – that didn't mean he didn't want to, did it? Sherlock realized, a little hysterically, that he had no idea how relationships or sexual dalliances were supposed to work. Isn't this how it was meant to be? Nothing he'd researched had told him any differently.

Good thing John knew about these things, Sherlock accepted, or nothing would have ever happened. Surely this is how these things happen; John had simply hastened them along. It was perfectly normal, then, Sherlock decided, no matter how much the roiling nausea in his stomach or the horrified constriction in his chest seemed to think otherwise. He realized with a start that they had both came, and John was now forcing his trousers back up over his shaking, unresponsive legs.

"Wasn't that nice?" John asked affectionately, buckling Sherlock's belt for him. "A good bracing fuck to clear our minds?"

"Yes, very nice," the detective replied automatically. Sirens sounded in the distance – Lestrade coming to the crime scene finally – and he prayed silently that someone would notice his disheveled state and think to ask if something was wrong. He didn't hold much hope of that.

"You were right, you know."

"Yes, I know."

Lestrade's booming voice echoed off the curved walls of the tramway, saving the pair from any further dialogue. "What have we got, Sherlock?" As he came into view of the men, he took their appearances in, smirking slightly. "Well, other than _that._"

John adopted a flustered air, rearranging his clothes. "We're _not_-"

"Yes, of course, we know you're not," the DI agreed with a roll of his eyes, his smile dropping sharply when he saw the stricken expression on the consulting detective's face. "Sherlock?"

"I. . . I don't have anything. Just – take it."

"You alright, mate?"

"Yes. Fine. I'm – fine," Sherlock replied sharply. "This body has nothing of significance. Tag it and bag it, inspector."

"Sherlock – are we getting _any_ closer to solving these murders, or are you just mucking about with your boyfriend?"

"We're NOT-"

"I'll figure it out," the detective growled, pushing past them. John gave an apologetic glance to Lestrade before following close after.

"Was I supposed to enjoy that?" Sherlock asked earnestly as they strode away.

"What, talking to Lestrade?"

"No – the – uh."

"I would hope you enjoyed it."

"Right."

"Back to Baker Street then, or do we need to stop off anywhere?" John asked, hailing a taxi.

"Just back to the flat."

"Everything alright?" The doctor set his hand on Sherlock's thigh, and it took all of his willpower not to flinch away. What used to send electric thrills down his spine now offered him nothing but a dull sense of horror. He would need to recalibrate his somatic responses to remind himself that John was his friend and flatmate, because anything else was unacceptable.

"It's fine. It's _all _fine," the detective replied dully.


	5. Caibidil 5

**Sceaduwe – Chapter Five**

Sherlock's legs were shaking as they exited the cab at Baker Street, but John didn't seem to notice, going ahead toward the flat. He stood for a moment, resting his cheek against the cool brick of the building, its rough texture a grating reminder that he was still alive and mostly intact, despite the trauma his body had endured at the hands of his only friend.

Mrs. Hudson, hearing the door open again, popped her head out of 221A. "Leaving again so soon, dears? I was just going to whip up some brownies."

John, halfway up the stairs, stopped and returned to the ground floor, staring at her perplexedly. "We've only just come back from the Tramway, Mrs. Hudson."

"But I heard the door open only about an hour ago, Dr. Watson," the widow replied, her face wrinkling with confusion. "They were just in the middle of The Graham Norton Show when I heard it. Didn't think to come out because the man they had on was quite funny."

"Mrs. Hudson, you best get back in your flat."

"Why's that?"

"Because we might have an intruder," John gritted, pulling out his service weapon. "Sherlock!"

The detective crept in, wiping off his face and also retrieving his gun from his pocket. Together the flatmates stepped quietly up the stairs before John quickly opened their door, the two standing back-to-back as they swept their guns systematically across the interior of the room. Seeing the living room and kitchen clear, Sherlock walked down the hallway, still aiming, while John remained in the main room. "Clear!" Sherlock called out, blessing the fact that his voice didn't shake despite the close proximity to his colleague.

They switched places then, Sherlock remaining on the main floor while John checked the upstairs rooms. The coast clear, they stood together on the landing before Sherlock looked down and sighed. "Stupid, stupid."

"What is it?"

"There's a slight bloody indent where we went up the stairs. The ground floor is carpeted, which means that both our shoes picked up a bit of blood from the absorbent carpet. Someone was downstairs posing the next murder victim for us, left a spot or two on the way out – which we didn't notice because of the low lighting on the ground floor and our agitated states – and our shoes tracked it up."

"How do you know it's on the ground floor and not up here?"

"John – really? _Look_. There's no indents going down, just ones going up, except for very faint traces from when you returned downstairs," Sherlock said, pointing to the second set of stairs. "This means that we picked it up on the first floor, but the murderer didn't."

"But how did Mrs. Hudson not notice someone dragging a body in here – and how did they get in here in the first place?"

"The Graham Norton Show is her favorite show – and 221B isn't exactly Fort Knox, John."

"Right. Shall we have a look, then?"

"No sense delaying the inevitable."

They stormed down the stairs, Sherlock in the lead; he jumped the last few steps and immediately turned the corner, his eyes sweeping the floor to analyze the blood splotches in the carpet.

"Mrs. Hudson's going to have kittens about the poor carpet," John commented.

"Nevermind that – the supply cabinet – look." On the door of the supply cabinet down the hall from Mrs. Hudson's flat was a slight bloody smear at the hinge. "The murderer pressed on the hinge while closing it to help it make less noise, which is why Mrs. Hudson didn't hear it."

"Yes, but the killer didn't go up the stairs – we know that because of the lack of footprints – so why did Mrs. Hudson think it was us?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mrs. Hudson is a lovely woman, but she's not that bloody observant. She was probably so engrossed in her show that she only heard the front door slam, which is only did because the murderer was carrying the body and hence couldn't shut it properly." He sniffed the air beside the door. "Must be a fresh body: all I smell is a bit of blood. So it was killed before being brought here – obviously, Mrs. Hudson would notice someone screaming – and cleaned thoroughly, perhaps even gutted so it wouldn't evacuate the bowels."

"And _no one_ noticed someone carrying a corpse into an urban apartment building."

"Big luggage bag, probably: put the body in, lugged it up the steps, unloaded the body in the supply cabinet, left again. Luggage doesn't tell us much unless we know that kind of luggage to look for - when we're done here, ask the neighbors if they remember someone with a big bag."

John nodded. "Still, bit risky of them, don't you think?"

Sherlock rubbed his hands together. "The danger is the joy of it, John. These people are doing the killing to leave a message, to leave an impression. The showier and flashier the murders, the better. And now – for the big reveal!" Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pair of latex gloves and snapped them on eagerly, wrenching back the door of the supply closet. Then he promptly shut it, wheezing. "Holy mother of-"

The doctor smirked slightly. "Never seen you respond so viscerally to a murder."

"Yes, but – _the face!_"

"What about it?"

"LOOK!" Sherlock pulled the door open again, stepping on the other side of it to block his own view.

John raised his eyebrows. "Well, that's your murder myth, then."

"What is?"

"Rawhead and Bloody Bones, would know it anywhere. This story terrified me as a child."

"_Very_ good, John, thank you. Glad your childhood demons have a use. Right then." Having regained his composure, Sherlock stepped back in front of the scene, analyzing it.

The corpse had been posed sitting atop a pile of meat bones – most likely animal probably bought from a local butcher, a possible lead – with strings of fat and gristle still clinging tenaciously to them. The bones were placed inside an oversized drip pan, the kind seen in industrial barbeque ovens, which explained the lack of blood seepage except for the splotches they'd already encountered in the carpet. It wore a suit, the buttons and labels conveniently ripped out, and its legs were crossed with the arms wrapped around them, in a grotesque hunched position. But most notable about the body was its thick head of black hair – and the fact that the face had been neatly sliced off and peeled away. The eyeballs, a startlingly dark brown, merely stared distantly into space, only a few shreds of flesh clinging to their borders. The lips, too, had been cut away, leaving a gaping hole for the mouth. Only the ears remained covered, though stained and flecked with blood.

Sherlock ran his gloved finger across the cut, nodding. "Done by a scalpel, a very sharp one. Again, no leads on that: the slicing pattern is too generic for me to discern which brand of scalpel could have been used. Oh, what's this?" Looking down into the corpse's pocket, he blanched, seeing a small, bloody zip-lock bag. Pulling it out and unzipping it with careful fingers, he grimaced further, recognizing it was the victim's face.

"Well, unfold it then," John said impatiently; the detective clenched his teeth at the tone, but did the doctor's bidding. It went slowly, as the blood had begun to congeal around itself, but finally he smoothed out the flesh and placed it carefully atop the body's head, fitting the eyes inside the holes conveniently cut for them. He gave a small yelp of surprise, backing away.

"No. That's not possible."

"Moriarty," John clarified. "This is Moriarty's body."

"Yes, and that's his face."

"Either way, Moriarty's dead. That means the case is over, right?"

"No!" Sherlock whirled to face John, his eyes stormy. "Because Moriarty couldn't have killed himself. A man cannot slice off his own face, wrap it in a zip-lock bag in his front pocket, and then curl up on a pile of bloody meat! Someone had to have killed him. And as long as someone killed him, we have a case."

"Of course. But who could have done it – I thought Moriarty was the head of the organization?"

"Obviously we thought wrong. Like you pointed out, this coincides with a myth, which connects it to the other murders. It can't have been just a random killing of a criminal, and since it wasn't a suicide, it doesn't signal the end of the line either. Especially the fact that it was in our apartment building – right under our noses, so to speak – that also signals that there's still someone to be found. Someone is still mocking us, sending me messages through corpses. But what – _oh._ My theory is proved correct." Sherlock bent down, scrunching up his nose at the close proximity to the corpse, and picked up a single, bloody molar. "The sniper's teeth. So Moriarty was the killer of the sniper, and the poser of The Spider. Whoever killed him scattered the teeth as well, deciding to incorporate them into the myth."

Sherlock's phone rang, and both of the men jumped.

"Mycroft. I don't have time for your trifles right now, I'm on a case."

The elder Holmes sounded choked, as if attempting to disguise his terror. "_I'm afraid I might have a . . . situation that pertains directly to your investigation._"

His younger brother immediately sounded alert. "Are you alright? Are you safe?"

"_Yes, quite, but . . . I'd like you to come take a look. It's a murder._"

"A murder? You have my attention. Leave immediately for a safe location – we'll be over in thirty minutes." Sherlock hung up, his expression grim. "So it appears no one is safe. John, text Lestrade and tell him to meet us in Whitehall. Text Dimmock and tell him to come here in regards to this murder. And shut that supply cabinet or Mrs. Hudson will have a coronary."

"What was it?"

"I don't even have to analyze the blood patterns on the floor to know they were done by a pair of high heels. And the smudge on the hinges was done by a thumb flattened by incessant texting. My brother calls me, clearly distraught, and asks me to investigate a murder so soon after this one has been posed."

"Anthea? _Oh god_."

"Julie, but yes, call her that if you'd like. The murders are speeding up: we're coming to the end of the cycle, it seems. Soon all will be revealed."

John nodded, his face descending into a resolved expression. His eyes sharpened into slits, but he turned away quickly, striding out of the front door. Sherlock watched him, carefully peeling off his latex gloves and returning his leather ones to his hands. The low-grade discomfort he had learned to live with roiled into a crescendo, so sharply it nearly physically hurt, and he gave one last look to what had once been – so he thought – his arch nemesis before turning to follow his flatmate.

"No one is safe, it seems," he murmured, jamming his hands sharply into his pockets. "Not even me."


	6. Pennod 6

**Sceaduwe – Chapter 6**

"So Julie – Anthea, as she told you apparently – was Moriarty's murderer," Sherlock purred as he tapped away at his phone, sending messages to Lestrade regarding the location of Mycroft's office as well as asking him to send a security detail toward his brother's Knightsbridge home. The rest of his texts were directed toward Dimmock, explaining the facts of the corpse at 221 Baker Street and demanding he not unduly frighten Mrs. Hudson with the gorier specifics of the murder.

"Apparently so. But why? She couldn't have been doing it for money – Mycroft certainly makes enough to pay her well."

"Julie had a very expansive budget to work with, that's true."

"So . . . ."

"And it wasn't a political assassination attempt, either. If she wanted to kill my brother, she would have done it already – she's been working with him for five years now. Even got invited to Christmas dinner her second year under his employ. He was very fond of her. Obviously very upset about it."

"I would assume so. But how did this escape both yours and his notice?"

Sherlock snorted. "We may both be geniuses, but we're not omniscient. With the proper guidance from someone trained in covert operations, it's not at all difficult to fly under the radar. I have spent little time with her during the last five years, not nearly enough to be able to deduce anything meaningful about her life. And Mycroft is generally so busy pushing chess pieces about on his war board that he has little time for interpersonal relations. Julie became his sole confidante, really, and because of that he likely looked past glaring character flaws and red flags in order to trust her more fully."

"That makes sense, I guess."

"I would know about that sort of matter," Sherlock mumbled darkly, shooting a cold glance at his assistant. John pretended not to hear him, instead clicking away on his phone.

"You raped me, you know," the detective stated suddenly. "And you lied about the heads."

"This _again_?" John barked. "Are you sure you have any room left in your head for anything of importance, going on about the cadaver heads like that?"

"You ignored the first part of my statement."

"It wasn't important."

"Sexually assaulting someone isn't _important_? Sexually assaulting _me_, your colleague, your flatmate, isn't important?"

John turned to face him, his eyes impenetrably icy. "I thought you were a sociopath, Sherlock. Sociopaths tend not to follow social norms. If you have such a lack of regard for social rules, then how would you know what is rape and what isn't?"

"Rape is when one party enacts an act of sexual violence on another without the victim's consent."

"And you never explicitly denied that consent."

"I should turn you into the police, John," Sherlock replied quietly.

"What good would that do, hmm? Do you think they'd believe you? Everyone thinks we're on together, you know." He smiled a little, reaching over to run his hand down Sherlock's leg, like a lover might. "A quick high-octane fuck, celebratory, in the middle of a case. . . that's what lovers do, don't they?"

"I don't have any evidence to support or deny that."

"You said you loved me, Sherlock," John replied, his voice warm and sympathetic. He rubbed Sherlock's leg a little harder, the friction reawakening the dull soreness in his body and reminding him where he had been violated. "That's what people who love each other do."

Sherlock bit his lip, realizing exactly what his statements before had meant. He had practically stated he was in love with John, and that his emotions tilted toward infatuation: why, then, would anyone believe him when he said he had been forcibly sodomized by someone he claimed to adore? Everyone had been speculating about their couple status the entire time they had been together, had teased both of them about it mercilessly – even Mrs. Hudson. The idea was so firmly entrenched in their minds that even his protests wouldn't possibly dislodge it. No one would believe him, and he alone had to bear this terrible truth.

The thought chilled him, and he shivered, even as John's burning hand ran a painful circuit around his thighs.

"Now, what were you going to say about the cadaver heads?" John demanded.

"N- nothing." He was starting to even doubt his own recollection, even though he had the damning texts from Molly in his phone. What if he'd gotten it wrong, hadn't been paying attention, had been so focused on the case before them that his facts were skewed? It wasn't worth it to argue about the niggling point of John's phone call being at the wrong time to have been to Molly, or the fact that Molly had forwarded him the text exchange between herself and the doctor, proving that the call wasn't to the lab assistant.

Wasn't he supposed the trust the person he claimed to love, even when the trust seemed misplaced? Surely that was part of it, same as the forced sex. He couldn't claim to know how these interpersonal relationships worked, despite years of watching their wicked mechanics wreak destruction on the lives of ordinary people. The finer points of them escaped him, and he realized that he had nothing to base his discomfort upon other than the sickly feeling still festering in his consciousness. That alone was surely not enough to damn John to villainy. No, just this once, he would have to push past his gut instinct and simply trust the man who had stood beside him for so long, who had saved him from murderous cabbies and offered to blow himself up for Sherlock's sake.

Mycroft's office, a dank and dreary affair in a stodgy colonial building, was on the second floor, accessible only by the flight of steps that had originally functioned as servant stairs. While convenient to keep out intruders, this proved frustrating to access when the building had been closed for the night. Lestrade, having arrived ten minutes before, was still arguing with the security guard to unlock both the front and back doors so that they could reach the servant stairs.

After flashing his badge several more times and threatening to arrest the man for obstruction of justice, they finally found their way inside to take a look at the crime scene.

It was quite a disturbing one, even on the standards set by the string of murder myths. Julie's body, still dressed in her typical outfit of a black skirt-suit, lay in the center of the floor, her chestnut hair unpinned and fanned out behind her head like a halo.

A ring of seven dead Labrador puppies had been positioned around her, their soft infantile bellies slit from throat to pelvis and their visceral organs removed. Each of their open, unblinking eyes has been covered with a red color contact, giving them a fiery appearance. Unclasping the top button of the corpse's jacket, Sherlock noted that Julie had been given the same treatment, her organs removed and likely disposed of elsewhere.

She was hogtied shortly before death – as Sherlock discerned from the bruises and abrasions on her wrists – and an umbrella-patterned tie stuffed into her mouth. In her front pocket was a postcard for Cadair Idris, the highest peak in Snowdonia National Park.

"Wait. That's . . . that's Mycroft's tie," John stuttered. "How would the murderer have gotten Mycroft's tie?"

"He keeps a spare tie in his top left drawer in case the one he's wearing gets soiled. It's no cause for alarm."

"Doesn't that mean they could have rooted through his things, stolen important documents?"

"Anything of importance is locked. Check the locks, though, John. Lestrade, watch the door?" In the five years they'd known each other, certain phrases had become code: 'watch the door' was generally Sherlock's way of asking Lestrade to leave so he could examine the body without interfering thoughts.

John, pulling on each drawer to check that the locks were still secure, commented, "I know the murder mystery this time."

Sherlock sat up from analyzing the gunshot wound in Julie's temple to stare at him. "How would you know it so quickly?"

"It'sCŵn Annwn: the immortal hunting hounds of Wales. Part of their hunting grounds is supposedly Cadair Idris. Anthea – sorry, Julie – it supposed to represent Mallt-y-Nos, the Matilda of the Night. She was a beautiful Norman noblewoman who said she didn't want to go to heaven unless there was hunting, so she was doomed to hunt forever in the night sky with Arawn's hellhounds."

"Julie's love of danger is what doomed her in the end. And that tells us why she did it: it wasn't about the money, it was about the thrill. Psychopaths get bored, as do secretaries . . . but how do you know that?"

John smirked. "We should go for a ride, Sherlock."

"Sorry, what?"

"We should go for a ride."

The detective gazed at him coldly, his eyes narrowing to tiny chips of ice. He regarded the doctor for a long moment before turning back to his work on the body. "We need to figure out the murderer." Engrossed in his work, he ignore the fact that John was coming to stand behind him, though his shoulders stiffened involuntarily at the feeling of his flatmate's footsteps treading against the carpet.

"If there is only one way in and one way out of this office, then she must have been murdered here – but how did they get the dogs in? Unless the security guard is in on it, or they had an alternate route. Unless-" Sherlock stopped suddenly, the quiet click of John flicking off the safety on his gun freezing the blood in his veins. A sharp, cold weight pressed against the back of his head, and he swallowed heavily, closing his eyes and praying that the irrefutable facts of his situation weren't true.

"I mean it, Sherlock. I think a nice drive would do us well."

"How are you going to get me out of here without arousing the suspicious of Lestrade?" he asked, his voice gravely with fear.

"Easy. You're going to walk out of that door and act as normal as you can – I know that's difficult, being you – and then we're going to get into a cab and go for a ride."

"And if I don't?"

John chuckled softly, reaching down to twist Sherlock's chin so their eyes could meet. "Well, then, sweetheart, I'll just have to kill you _very_ quietly."

Holmes gulped. The odds, for once, were not in his favor. An army-trained doctor with a penchant for violence and a disturbingly good ability to mask his own cruel nature _could_ kill him with a police officer right aside and make it seem accidental. He could shoot the man, but he had no skill in unarming him, not from his kneeling position and not without making a loud scene. Though the loud scene would alert Lestrade to the danger, it would also likely end in him being shot through the head. It was best to go quietly and think furiously on his feet.

Standing up, holding his hands over his head to show he had not reached for his gun, Sherlock moved toward the door slowly, carefully lowering his arms back to his sides so as to appear natural. The DI turned around to greet him as he opened the door, surprised at the short duration of his examination.

"Everything alright, Sherlock?"

"Quite, yes, good, it's fine. Dr. Watson and I are just going to head home to confer with Dimmock about Moriarty's body, and, uh, research some more information."

Lestrade smirked at the term 'research.' "Yes, we all need a little stress relief now and again. Have fun."

Sherlock winced after they had walked past the inspector, the words palpably hitting a nerve.

A cab was waiting for them in front of Whitehall, just beyond the reach of the squad cars' glowing lights. John opened the door for Sherlock, smiling obscenely, and it shut behind him with a clap, like the peal of a church bell ringing out his doom.

The cabbie turned to them, a tan man with perfectly ironed black hair, and Sherlock gasped, covering his eyes and moaning with frustration.

"Of course, _of course_. You, the man from LA, the one from the murder cabbie case, of course, you're in on it too. It was always there, right in front of my face! I've missed everything."

"And it's always the things we don't see that kill us in the end – isn't it, love?" John smiled, throwing his head back to laugh.

Sherlock stared out the window at the city he had spent so much of his time cursing and saving, the city he had given much of his life to clearing of crime. As the cab rushed toward its unspoken destination, London's monuments rushed by in a blur, and he silently named each one, trying fruitlessly to determined where they might be headed based on the orientation of the ancient buildings.

The Eye winked innocently in the skyline; it seemed a bottomless chasm to Sherlock, a harbinger of his doom at the hands of the one man he'd ever trusted.


	7. Capitul 7

**Sceaduwe – Chapter 7**

The cab jolted to a stop beside a broken, trash-laden pier (Sherlock's mind helpfully provided the location: Isle of Dogs, West India Pier), its lights the only illumination beside the derelict, abandoned building. The click of the automatic doors unlocking sounded like a gunshot, and despite himself, the detective flinched. This was a dangerous position, he knew – perhaps the most dangerous one he'd ever found himself enduring. Now that his only saving grace, his backup, had turned out to be a backstabber, he had little hope of rescue. Not that it would matter to him anymore.

John patted Sherlock's knee in a patronizing fashion, giving him a fatherly smile as he reached over Sherlock's lap to open his door for him. The man's muscled thigh slid across his own, much like a boa constrictor slithering across its prey, and he couldn't help but shiver. "Come on then, love. Out you go."

"And if I run?"

The doctor merely fixed him with a leaden stare. "And where, Sherlock, would you run to?"

The rhetorical question silenced him, and he watched with a dull feeling of detachment as the inevitable played out before him.

John dispatched the cabbie with an admirably precise swipe of his knife, right across the throat, severing the tendons instantly. Sherlock simply watched the pattern of blood spatter, sighing as a fleck hit him on the cheek. The cabbie took a last, burbling breath before his head fell to his chest, supported only by the spinal column, and blood poured out as the color drained from his tanned face.

"Dreadful business, that," John offered companionably as he knelt in the pooling crimson beside the door, reaching into his Army bag and withdrawing a string of bells, which he wrapped around the man's hands, much like a rosary. He tucked the murder weapon between the clasped palms, sharp end out. Next he unwrapped a hunk of coarse bread, and, lifting the corpse's head, shoved it forcibly into the open mouth. Finally, John set a laminated card with an illustration of fairies on the dashboard, and stepped away to examine his work.

"A little rough, but they'll get the hint," he said, turning around to face Sherlock. The expression he wore – vicious and devoid of any compassion – was so alien as to render the detective speechless, merely staring at the man he once thought to call his friend. Clearing his throat, Sherlock attempted to speak, but it came out squeaky and forced, and he coughed to try again.

"Fairies this time?"

John nodded, laughing a little. "_Aos sí_. He was always a bit fey anyway."

"But that wasn't the point."

"No. The point is to remind you that you are dealing with forces beyond your control, things you will never be able to tame. Something you can't even _understand_, for that big bulky brain of yours is completely useless unless the evidence fits into your system. You are outnumbered by invisible enemies, Sherlock. And we want to remind you of that."

"We?"

The doctor smiled, gesturing grandly toward the remnants of the failed pier. Two broken garden chairs sat facing one another, with the remnants of a trash fire guttering in between them. Broken syringes, condom wrappers, beer cans and other assorted rubbish spread out from the shore to the wheels of the cab, a glittering heap of shadow and bright illuminated by the coals of the fire. The detective wondered dully if any of his homeless network were near enough to come if he screamed. "Have a seat, Sherlock. I think it would do to have a chat."

Sherlock pulled out his gun then, aiming it squarely at his colleague's head despite the fact that his hands quivered. "I could just shoot you."

John shook his head. "You could, of course – doesn't this feel familiar to you? – but then you'd never understand. You want to know how you could have been deceived for so long by someone so plain and unassuming. You want to know what you're up against. You want to know why you gave your heart to someone who wanted nothing more than to shoot you in the head."

Holmes bit his lip until a tickle of blood stung his tongue. "I do."

"Then have a seat." His enemy's voice had gained a keen edge, Sherlock observed, and he sat, nervously fingering his weapon.

"Would you like to hear the whole story, everything you didn't notice, or would it hurt your ego too much? I know you are quite a proud man," John said easily, lacing his fingers behind his head. The low light of the dying fire threw sharp shadows into his face, turning him into a mask of the man Sherlock thought he knew. It seemed oddly fitting; Sherlock closed his eyes for a minute as wave of nausea hit him, realizing the weight of his miscalculations. When he opened them again, his companion regarded him with a gloating smirk. "So?"

"I'd like the whole story."

"Let me start with my mistakes – the ones you didn't catch. You see, Sherlock, you hide behind this façade of the omniscient, uncaring sociopath, but you never once consider what a _true_ sociopath really would be. You are a scared little boy pretending to be a god, and you waste so much time maintaining this image that you miss danger until it's right on your doorstep." John stopped, a slow grin spreading over his face. "Or in your bed."

Sherlock winced, turning his eyes down to the fire.

"Do you know why I really left the war? I killed two men in my own brigade because they argued with me over a game of cards. Avoided a trial by getting myself shot the next day and invalided out. Lucky strike, really. But it still went on my record.

"You didn't perform a background check on me before you moved in with me. First mistake for you, first mistake for me – I never destroyed the records. They were always there for you to find, but somehow you never bothered." The doctor tilted his head slightly. "Thorough, careful Sherlock Holmes, not even bothering to look into the past of his flatmate? Just trusting his own trifling deductions to protect him from a total stranger? Hmm. . . ."

"I didn't feel it was necessary," the detective interjected quietly, but his enemy merely snorted.

"Anyway. You asked me if I wanted to see some more. I didn't cover myself very well – my pronunciation was stilted and sounded insincere. But I most definitely sounded sincere when I said 'Oh god yes', because it was true; still is. Any normal Army doctor would tell you to piss off, not to bring up painful memories of sewing half-dead teenagers back together. To me they weren't painful memories. They were the only memories I ever had of feeling _alive_. So of course I would say yes.

"Sally Donovan told me so many times to leave because you get off on murders. An ordinary man would have – what would someone like John Watson want to do with someone like you? Sweet, loving, humble John Watson, why would he want to get caught up with _you_?"

"I thought it was because you. . ."

"I what, Sherlock? Because I _fancied_ you? Because I _wanted _you? Because I liked you?" John laughed, that malicious howl that shot terrible sparks down Sherlock's spine. "No. God no. I got caught up with you because it was my job as part of the Collective, and I enjoyed it because I'm the one Sally Donovan should have been afraid of. _I'm_ the one who gets off on murder. You just do it because you have nothing else to do with your sad, sorry life."

"So you are part of the Collective, then," Sherlock stated, blinking hard to ward off the moisture in his eyes.

"_Don't interrupt me!_" the army doctor screamed, lunging toward Sherlock's throat before restraining himself, his face sliding back to its neutral expression. "We'll get there in time. Patience, Sherlock Holmes."

The raven-haired man sat back, observing John critically. How could he have not seen the savagery underneath the surface, the cesspool of hatred and malevolence? Was he truly so blinded to his flatmate's flaws because he was too obsessed with his own, or, God forbid, he was charmed by them? Surely this was the biggest flaw of his career, the most fatal misstep he had ever undertaken. And now both his heart and his mind would pay the terrible price. A total disengagement from human society, which he had so tenuously clung to in the first place, seemed in order.

"The night I killed the cabbie, I thought I'd cocked up for sure. I felt nothing killing him, obviously, but I had to at least pretend I did, and I failed quite miserably at that, as I knew from the fact that you questioned me about it. Fortunately, you were too ignorant to even think of another reason I might be so calm other than that I had 'nerves of steel'. No, Sherlock, I don't have nerves of steel; I have a heart of iron, a heart that doesn't care about anything but my own end."

"And what is your own end?" Sherlock asked, struggling for some semblance of detachment in his voice.

John's eyes gleamed predatorily. "To be a small part of a great success: the destruction of Sherlock Holmes. The insufferable pin-prick in the side of the crime beast. I'd like to be part of the operation that takes you down. It appears I've gotten my wish."

"So you're going to kill me."

He laughed again, sending another shockwave of alarm throughout Sherlock's entire limbic system. "No, no, no! I'm going to talk to you, and then you're going to kill _me_."

"Kill you? I. . ."

John interrupted him before he could finish. "All operatives are destroyed when their purpose is complete. It protects the anonymity of the Collective leaders – dead lips don't talk. But this is a tangent, Sherly. I'm not done with the good stuff."

"Go right ahead."

"Sarah. Boring boring Sarah; she served quite a nice purpose, though. Gave you a reason to go creeping along on your own and get yourself captured. When that didn't work, I got the pair of us kidnapped so you'd have to come rescue us. The whole disagreement with General Shan, the one that let you get off on your silly hero fantasies? That only came about because operatives are not allowed to know of each others' existence; I had to keep quiet about who I was or she'd catch on."

"So why didn't you let them kill the both of us?"

"Those weren't my orders at the time. I only needed to lure you to the Tramway."

"And why hasn't Sarah been killed since then?"

John offered a vicious little smile. "She serves another purpose."

Sherlock felt bile creeping up his throat, and forced it down with a sharp cough.

"Do you see the cute little parallel there? Jim played gay for you while dating Molly; I played gay for you while dating Sarah. As quickly as you saw Moriarty's ruse, you never saw through mine. Probably because you didn't _want_ to see through it.

"The incident at the pool was completely staged, if you haven't figured it out by now. I was on my way to meet the Collective when you left the message for Moriarty, so we decided to make it seem like a hostage situation in line with the others. It was easy enough to do, and you fell for it so easily: it was pathetic how you could be so quickly convinced to give up your life for someone who never cared about you and never will."

The detective shifted uneasily in his seat, a tear finally dripping onto the leg of his trousers. John merely watched, a self-satisfied snarl twisting his features into a disturbing smile.

"So none of it. I missed all of it. Everything of importance."

"You misjudged nearly everything," he sneered. "You let your idiotic human emotions lure you into infatuation, and then you floundered about like a newborn calf, trapping yourself ever further into the net."

"I think I've heard enough," Sherlock murmured, lifting his weapon as if it weighed a ton.

"Oh no, I'm nearly done. Indulge me."

The weapon dropped back into his lap with a soft '_pwwmph_' and Sherlock lifted his eyes to John's once more.

"The clue is in the names, Sherlock. Since you're too bloody ignorant to figure it out yourself, I'll happily walk you through it."

"Which names?"

"Jim Moriarty – John Hamish Watson."

"Go on."

"Jim means 'Supplanter'. Hamish is the Irish form of James, which also means 'Supplanter'. Obvious meaning there; we transgress the laws of society. Moriarty means 'Son of the Navigator'. Watson means 'Son of Walter'. Moriarty originates from the Irish county of Kerry, which in Irish Gaelic means 'People of _Ciar_', and its nickname is The Kingdom. _Ciar_, as you should know, means dark. So we have Son of the Navigator – which could mean 'leader' – Son of Walter, The Kingdom, and the Dark People. If you had half a brain and any knowledge of etymology, you could easily figure out that our names give you the name of your next target: we are the metaphorical sons of Walter, leader of the Dark Kingdom – the Collective."

"What about John?" he whispered, his eyes stinging.

John beamed. "Very good, Sherlock. John, as you likely know, means 'God is Gracious.' But only an existent god can be gracious, isn't that right?"

"And there is no god."

"Exactly. No justice in the world but the one you make for yourself. We'd just like to remind you that we are the closest to gods that men can ever get, and we've been gracious with you long enough. But playtime's over, Sherlock. Our daddy's had enough."

"Moriarty said much the same."

"Repetition for effect – what's that term, literary term?"

"Conduplicatio," Sherlock offered dully.

"Not _quite_ the one, but yes, it'll work. Just a few more things, and then we'll be ready."

"I'm all ears."

"Seven murders – including my own, of course. Seven warnings to you. It hasn't worked out quite how we planned, but it'll be close enough."

"Your birthday is July 7th."

"Very good! Yes, _thank you!_ I was worried you'd gone brain-dead."

"But why mythology?"

"To remind you that you are working with forces far beyond your control or comprehension. Same as the whistling in the trees scared the peasants so long ago that they made up monsters to explain it – you do not see, so you cannot understand. The machinations of our empire are so swift, so silent, that you will never see them well enough to dismantle them. You are outmatched in every possible way." John stood, striding suddenly over to Sherlock and seizing him by the throat and hands, watching him squirm. The doctor leered as the detective thrashed helplessly, and he leaned in to whisper close to the man's ear. "You are only as good as your knowledge, and your knowledge is _nothing_."

Releasing him, he stood back, aiming his gun in Sherlock's face. "My murder myth is the sceadugenga, if you were curious. The shape-shifting shadow."

"Fitting," Holmes wheezed.

John smiled slightly. "Because your worst nightmare came in the form of your only friend."

"Only man I thought I'd ever love," Sherlock said softly.

Watson laughed, his screaming hyena howls echoing off the derelict building and ringing into the murky water below. "Ignorant little child. No one could love someone as damaged and useless as you. I will admit that you're an attractive man, but the rest of you is worthless. I would know." Reaching into his pocket, John procured a lacy green thong, setting it to rest in Sherlock's lap. "I really would know."

At the horror and betrayal gleaming in the man's eyes, John clucked his tongue, backing up and checking the magazine in his weapon. His voice dropped into a serious, business-like timbre, and he reloaded the clip before taking aim at Sherlock's head. "You're a gnat, Sherlock. Well, perhaps more like a fly: irritating, but mostly harmless. You get in our way, you dip your wings in our tea, but you are _so, so_ very easy to crush. This has been a fun game, a merry little dance, but it's over, Sherlock. All flies have their dying time. This is yours."

"I know," he whispered, staring straight into the barrel with resignation.

John smiled pityingly, and his finger twitched on the trigger.

There was a split second of silence before the gun burst into light.


	8. Chapter 8

**Sceaduwe – Chapter 8**

"Sherlock? _Sherlock!_"

The man in question woke with a start, panting. He could feel the sweat dripping around his body, gluing him to the silk sheets of his twin bed. His feet, poking out from the end of the mattress as usual, were freezing cold – what time was it? A quick glance at the window told him around 3 am.

"You were screaming," said a familiar voice, raspy with sleep but dulcet with concern. The light pouring from the opened door silhouetted the figure of John, wrapped in his shabby dressing gown with his feet jammed into ratty slippers. Looking at him forced Sherlock's stomach to squelch ominously, and he leaned over the side of his bed to vomit.

"Christ, Sherlock – are you alright?" The doctor rushed to his side, carefully avoiding the puddle of Sherlock's sick as he pressed his cool hand to his flatmate's forehead. "You don't have a fever, but –"

He staggered back as Sherlock roughly shoved him away. "_Don't touch me_," the detective hissed, sitting upright and wiping a hand across his mouth, grimacing.

"I. . . I just . . . what the hell is wrong?" Flustered, John looked about for paper towels, something to clean up the mess, while Sherlock threw his head back against the old, worn pillows, recalling the dream in vivid detail.

Having located a box of tissues and a plastic bag, Watson went to work wiping away the remnants of Sherlock's outburst, his face scrunched up in distaste.

"I had a nightmare," Sherlock mumbled, running his hand through his damp muddle of curls.

"Do you want to talk about it? It might help," John offered, dropping the used tissues into the plastic bag and tying it tight. Setting it aside to take to the trash on his way back upstairs, the weary doctor sat on the edge of his partner's bed – the partner who watched him suspiciously, shoulders stiff and brow furrowed.

"No."

"It might have been a premonition or something. That brain of yours, wouldn't put it past you," he replied, stretching and groaning as his sore muscles popped. Settling back down again, he stretched out his hand to pat Sherlock's knee, but remembering the violent reaction before, thought better of it and returned his hand to his lap.

"Don't be ridiculous, John. There is no scientific evidence that premonitions are a real phenomenon." Sherlock watched John's hands in the doctor's soft lap, willing them to offer him tangible comfort.

"Well, perhaps."

"No. Dreams are the brain's way of making sense of events that happened throughout the day; using the subconscious data the mind has gathered to create symbolism and logic. What I saw tonight was just –" Sherlock suddenly fixed John with a horrified gaze, the color draining from his face.

Instantly concerned, the doctor leaned in, putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He was surprised when he was not immediately batted away, and so tightened his grip slightly and rested his temple against the other's cold damp forehead, willing Sherlock to focus. "What is it? Are you alright? Sherlock?"

"Yes . . . yes, fine." The detective leaned back and shook his head, forcing his expression back into a neutral mask. "It's nothing."

John smiled nervously, releasing Sherlock's shoulder. "Right. Well, you were worrying me for a bit there. I'll . . I'll go take this bag out, make us some tea? Chamomile; helps you sleep."

"That would be good, thank you."

"I've never seen you look so scared, you know," the shorter man said as he leaned down to pick up the plastic bags. "Not even when you nearly swallowed poison, or when we both almost got blown up." He squeezed Sherlock's shoulder again before turning to leave, rotating his own – the one shot in the war – to ward off its stiffness. "Thought you didn't bother with emotions."

"Sometimes they bother with-"

Sherlock cut himself off, his mouth clicking shut with a snap. As the good doctor stepped out into the hallway, flooded with warm light, his flatmate watched after him, a dark expression in his eyes.


End file.
